Of Mirth And Folly.
Chapter Three: Gondor's Hidden Treasure.
"Wicked………tricksy Hobbitsessss………they're thieves………they're filthy………little………thieves!"
Frodo bolted upright where he lay. In the light of the blue moon of Middle Earth, his wild, darting eyes surveyed his immediate surroundings. But there was nothing. His bedchamber was still and kempt. Beneath the south balcony, Elrond, Bilbo and the bearded brawlers were retiring for the evening; Sam was quiet and calm under the eaves of the marble bell; and potheads Merry and Pippin were, as far as Frodo knew, still in the custody of the great healer's dungeon.
In the city of Rivendell, there was nothing to fear.
And yet, he couldn't shake his feeling of………unease. Of malcontent, as the sly and wicked Grima Wormtongue would be heard utter not long from now. Frodo shed the silken solace of the bedcovers and staggered to his furry feet, resting against the balcony railing as he took deep, heaving breaths, the weight of the One Ring noticeable beneath his collar.
Something else felt the presence of the Ring that evening. Not Gandalf, not Elrond, but Gollum. Gollum, hunched in the boughs of Frodo's room like the hideous loincloth-clad creature that it was. His glowing eyes widened with breathless expectancy as his spindly, grimy fingers clung to the marble of the eaves.
"Precious will be ours once more," he reminded himself in a hoarse whisper, "Yeesssss, by daybreak, Precious will be ours………"
~(*)~
"Look, Merry!" cried Pippin, not at all concerned for the intimidating silhouette that stood before them, "This 'ere feller's got the weed!"
"Are you frightened?" hissed the shadowed man, menacingly.
"What?" retorted Merry, impatiently. "Who the bloody hell are you?"
"I ask you, are you frightened?" the man repeated.
"Now, hang on a second," said Pippin, placing a hand on his hip. "Which answer will result in us getting a hold of that there pouch?"
"Oh, for the sake of Osgiliath!" bellowed the man, angrily.
He threw them the pouch of Kingsfoil, and they eagerly began to stuff the crushed plant into their pipes. The man stepped forth into the shaft of moonlight that streamed into Aragorn's chamber, revealing himself as Boromir, esteemed son of the Steward of Gondor. He crouched beside them and took a handful of the weed for himself.
"Long have I undermined the authority of those who needn't intrude," sneered Boromir as he lit up, "Gondor needs no king, young halflings. Let us smoke to our heart's content!"
~(*)~
Determined to be fully rested for the adventure before him, Frodo allowed the serenity of Rivendell to ease his mind, and, yawning, he clambered back into bed, dismissing any suspicion of another presence in the room as mere folly. Silence fell upon the city once more.
Silence broken by a hoarse, ragged breathing.
"It came to me," the creature Gollum reminded himself as he crawled down along the length of the broad column. "It's mine………my own………my precioussss………"
He slithered to the floor, and there he crouched, a limbed lump in the shadows of the night. Slowly, silently, he drew closer to the bed.
~(*)~
Boromir rolled around on the floor, splitting his sides as the two pipe-toting Hobbits did likewise, tears of hysteria rolling freely down their faces. The nobleman finally had the strength to sit up and continue the tale that, with the assistance of the stupefying drug, had them all in stitches.
"A-hand then," he continued, wiping a tear from his eye, "Wa ha ha ha! And then Romrinoth says, 'That's no Cave Troll………that's my wife!' Ha ha ha ha haaaaaa………!!!!"
He let the pipe fall from his lips as he rolled onto his stomach and pounded at the floor with his fists, gasping for breath as he laughed uproariously. Merry and Pippin were howling like hyenas, kicking their stout legs furiously as they rocked back and forth in delight. All three took deep puffs of their pipes and began the routine over again.
"'Ere, now!" giggled Pippin, pointing to Boromir's belt. "What's that, then?"
Boromir sat upright and lazily followed Pippin's gaze to a protrusion near his sword's sheath. He grasped it and held it up for both to see.
"This," he began in a suddenly serious tone, "This is the Horn of Gondor. A distress signal and heirloom of my family. Its almighty blast can be heard for miles and miles. It may only be used in the direst of situations. Hee hee hee, why do you ask, little one?"
"I think I know," whispered Merry, excitedly.
He set his pipe aside and rolled onto all fours to examine the Horn properly.
"This 'ere horn gives me an idea………"
~(*)~
"Arwen?" called Aragorn softly, as he brushed a thin curtain of vines aside.
There she sat, just as radiant and just as beautiful as she had always been, and would always continue to be. She sat atop a bench facing away from her beloved, distractedly caressing a flower bud with her slender fingers. Only a subtle twitch of her pointed ears suggested that she had acknowledged Aragorn's intrusion.
"Arwen," he repeated, his voice little more than a whisper, but still fuelled by a passion that sent shudders reverberating through her dainty frame.
And as she trembled, the bud burst into full bloom. She turned to face him, unsure of herself, or of what to say. He sat beside her and let his eyes fall upon every detail of their surroundings. It was little more than a garden near the base of the great falls of Rivendell, a clearing with few traces of civilized interruption. Aside from the bench on which they sat and a weathered archway to guide the inquisitive traveller back to the safe confines of the city, they were isolated in an undisturbed haven.
He let his worn knuckles glide tenderly down the silken swell of her cheek as his weary grey eyes stared deep into her vibrant blue ones.
"Our time together shall be unspoilt," he insisted, his voice but a lofty breath.
"Estel," she gasped, unable to contain herself any longer.
She wrapped her arms around his broad neck and crushed her lips against his, the harsh and intimate breath of her nostrils masking any murmurs of reply her lover may have uttered. Within no time, the heat of the moment began to control their behaviour, and Aragorn lay the Elven beauty down along the length of the bench.
~(*)~
Four comical, clumsy and lecherous fingers grasped at the base of Frodo Baggins' bedframe. A smooth dome, deep aqua in the hue of the night, rose slowly from behind, long and thinning hair draped messily down either side. The harshness of Gollum's breathing had been intensified. It had been so long since he was this close to the object of his affection. It fought to hold its wheezing rhythmic gasping as it clambered silently over the covers. Three stealthy steps away, and he would be in possession of his precious.
Even his vengeful nature was silenced by his desire for the One Ring. He would've settled on taking it and scurrying into the night without disturbing the slumber of the thieving Hobbit who wore it around his neck. If need be, however, Gollum was prepared to throttle Frodo for his crime. Two lengths away, now………so very, very close………
~(*)~
"Now, wait just a gosh-darned league, here," slurred Boromir, now completely wasted. "The Horn of Gondor is a priceless artefact of my people! What right do you, you miserable midget Shireling, have to………uh………what in the name of Theoden's haemorrhoids are you doing with it, anyway?"
Merry fought involuntary giggles as he stuffed the Horn of Gondor with the choicest leaves of Kingsfoil. When he could wedge no more in the narrow space, he set the contents alight and thick, thick wisps of the intoxicating essence wafted slowly from it. Merry began to chant.
"Blow………blow……….blow………"
Pippin, though smashed, got in on the act, encouraging Boromir to smoke from his priceless artefact.
"Blow………blow………blow!!!"
Psyching himself up, Boromir raised the heavy horn to be level with his face, and wrapped his whiskered lips around it.
~(*)~
Gollum's spindly fingers didn't even sustain grooves against the silk as he used his forearms to support his hunching frame. In his next breath, he knew, he would be able to wretch the Ring away from its chain and steal away into the safety of darkness, leaving behind this accursed city of purity and returning to his dank pit in the Misty Mountains. His hand trembled as it reached ever so slowly to the throat of Frodo Baggins.
~(*)~
Arwen let a sharp moan escape her pouting, crimson lips as the weight of her panting lover fuelled the intense heat that coursed through her veins. Her probing tongue wrenched his mouth wide open and began to explore every contour of it. Confident that there was no better time to proceed, Aragorn cupped her full breast in the palm of his groping hand. Nothing would stop them now.
~(*)~
"BLOW!!!" demanded both stoners in stern unison.
With all of his might, Boromir emitted an explosive exhalation into the instrument, resulting in the loudest resonating roar imaginable.
~(*)~
"What the fu-?!" screamed Frodo as the deafening trumpet roused him from his sleep. He shot upright and headbutted Gollum with so much force, the gangly creature was propelled to the adjacent end of the room. Frodo clutched his aching forehead from the impact and squinted to see through the haze his sight had adopted in the last five seconds. Gollum, however, had already scurried into the night, whimpering like a beast.
~(*)~
A startled cry also escaped Aragorn's throat, and he rolled off of the Elven beauty, landing on his rear end in the grass.
"By the Valar!" he cursed, stumbling to his feet. "That was the Horn of Gondor! Boromir is in trouble!"
Arwen lay dazed and confused on the bench, her body pining for sexual gratification like never before. Alas, the moment had been shattered once more, and she was left unfulfilled.
Aragorn drew his sword and hacked away the vines that hampered his vision of the happenings in the city. When the horn had ceased its blast, however, his fears were laid to rest as he heard the unanimous cry of 'ALL HAIL THE BONG OF GONDOR!' from his bedchamber.
"The Bong of Gondor," he repeated, setting his teeth on edge as he sheathed his sword once more. "That does it!"
End Chapter Three.